Ever felt like the world is closing in on you and everywhere you turn there is another obstacle?
That so much is “shouting loudly” that you don’t even know where to start with your “To-do” list? That’s rather how our lives appear at the moment, with seemingly one complication after another being thrown our way.
It amuses me when friends – in both the “Real” and “Facebook” worlds chat about their “Easter Break” and the amount of chocolate consumed.
But over in the Christian realm, the focus is somewhat different. As a friend who is a wonderful Church Organist so beautifully expressed to me recently: “The agony and the ecstasy of the Passion, Holy Week and Easter marathon for clergy, music and worship leaders and their families! Much more than a metaphorical journey with Christ, and always so wonderful to cross the finishing line exhausted and elated……..”
Whether or not you are a Christian, the Bible has much wisdom to share. [Indeed, it has been said that in my Parents’ generation, most schoolchildren had a working knowledge of The Bible and Shakespeare, something that in today’s “Google” world we have well and truly lost].
I was surprised to discover the phrase “No rest for the wicked” (which I quite often use as a smiling rejoinder) is a phrase originating from the Bible [from the Book of Isaiah.]
Well, sometimes I feel I must be very “Wicked” indeed, as my body cries out for sleep, yet my mind frets and worries.
Yet also in the Bible, in John Chapter 14, Jesus comforts his disciples, saying:
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me”.
So, message to myself –remember that He has given his angels charge over me, and I need to let the Lord give me some measure of His Peace.
Psalm 91 says:
2 I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”
4 He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
11 For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways; 12 they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
My household was duly primed that if the phone rang “On Wednesday” that they were not to give the caller the “third degree” but simply to take a message, were I not at home. And yes, the hoped-for call did come, and diaries were compared.
Being October and well into the end-of-year round of assignments, assessments and, for me, concerts, it was a full ten days before the charming Exchange Student and I had the same day and time free to meet up.
Soon a pattern was established, whereby Neil would make it to my place by Public Transport, I would drive to our chosen destination, and then I would drop him to the Seminary Gates at the end of the day, thereby retaining my “Street Cred”.
My delightful cousin Miriam, her husband Andrew (a motor racing aficionado) and their toddler daughter Stephanie were visiting from Melbourne for the Adelaide “Grong Pree” and gave my new British friend the nod of approval. The day of the Formula 1 race, I determined we should stay well away from the crowds and, instead, we did a circuit of beaches and wineries, culminating in a glass of chilled white wine at Horseshoe Bay (Port Elliot) as the sun set over the water. Neil received an extra “Gold Star” in my book for wearing a “Hong Kong” T-shirt – Hong Kong being the favourite overseas destination of my parents, my father in particular.
Before too long, Neil was sneaking out of the Seminary on a regular basis, often smartly dressed and clutching a bottle of wine. “You’ve met a girl, haven’t you?” enquired fellow students and staff, to which he just mumbled non-committedly, being under “Kylie’s Orders”, as it were.
After some weeks of such happy activity, one Sunday afternoon it was blisteringly hot. I was mindful of the fact that the seminary boarding house “Graebner Hall” had no fans or air-conditioning and, being constructed of “Besser Block” probably didn’t have much insulation, either. I was lying in my breezy bedroom with my pedestal fan oscillating the air, and considering that my new friend, unaccustomed as he was to Australian summers, would be baking in his spartan room.
Without a great deal more thought, I unplugged the fan (which was emblazoned with stickers proclaiming “Property of Kylie”) and drove to North Adelaide. I parked in my usual spot (OUTSIDE the gates) and ventured in, fan under my arm. Following the signs, I found Graebner Hall and, with a few people offering directions, eventually Neil’s Room. I opened the door, proffering the fan, which was gratefully received, as the air temperature was over 100 degrees. After chatting for a while, I headed into the corridor, in search of the bathrooms. Leaving Neil’s room I literally ran slap-bang into another student. “KYLIE! What are YOU doing here?” he exclaimed, while I simultaneously was gasping: “ROSS! What are YOU doing here”?
Yes, I had been “rumbled” at the first turn.
I had worked with Ross only a few months previously, as we had done a spell of “Prac-Teaching” together at the same High School. (During which, incidentally, Ross was praised for his conducting and discipline skills, while I was slated for over-reach while teaching elective music students a “better” way of Melody-writing while “undermining their regular teacher’s authority”, plus spending too much time chatting and drinking coffee with Senior Music Teacher [and, you guessed it, long-term friend] Jeffrey Kong).
This being Adelaide, and the Lutheran church (see previous post “Degrees of Separation”), Ross was not only my prac-teaching partner, but also the kid brother of my favourite Primary School teacher, who I had met some 10 years before on his family’s cane farm in rural Queensland. Ho hum.
Anyway, after that, I figured all hope was lost of me continuing to “fly under the radar”. Besides. By this stage I had decided I rather liked this Guthrig chap (Hong Kong T-shirt, good taste in wine, freshly pressed shirt and tie, beautiful British accent and all …) so – what the heck…
I started to park my car in the Seminary “Visitors” Car park, and every now and again visited Neil’s room. Only much later did it sink in (I am Blonde, after all) that my fan, now on permanent loan, would have asked more questions than it answered, with its proud decoration…
L-R: Rena Bartsch Abraham, Ken Bartsch, Ray Haby (Groom), Rona Haby (Bride), Eline Hartley (Chief Bridesmaid)
Growing up Lutheran in South Australia in the 1970’s and 80’s was an exercise in what author Douglas Adams (of Hitchhiker’s Guide fame) would call “the fundamental interconnectedness of all things”.
Close relatives, extended family, Congregational members, school friends, teachers, colleagues, social contacts all intertwined with the Lutheran Church at the Centre.
Like the party game “Six degrees of Separation”, but you rarely needed six.
My mother had this down to a fine art. A genuine conversation might go: “Oh, Sarah Schmidt? Her brother’s next-door neighbour’s barber’s cousin’s mother was a Quast who married that Frank Henschke. And his sister is Lois’ Aunt, you know”. This also fits neatly into the peculiar concept of having a “Good Lutheran Name” – that is, something vaguely Germanic or Polish, possibly containing a “sch” or a “key” sound (Wiadrowski, Noske). (My Uncle, surname “Cox” tended to have a misspelled name-badge at conferences, as the organisers preferred him to be “Kochs”).
When we moved to Western Victoria around Christmas 2003, we attended a Service in the Lutheran Church in Stawell (home of the “Stawell Gift” race). After the service the various church members crowded around us new faces outside. Word had got out that this was a reconnoitre visit by their soon-to-be-new-Pastor.
One woman, who had an English sounding name like Debbie Jones, went on the attack to me. “Don’t you find it Offensive”; she demanded, “that people ask, “Who WERE you?” As in “What was your maiden name? As if whoever you are and what you do now isn’t important, its only who you WERE that counts?”
Well, I can’t say this had particularly worried me before, but I could see where she was coming from. An older lady, Eline, not 5 minutes later duly asked “So, Who WERE you, dear?” and then delighted to tell me that a chap named Bartsch [my maiden name] was the Best Man at her sister’s wedding, some 50 years earlier. Subsequently she had a copy made for me of a photograph of the Wedding party. The “Best Man” was indeed my father, Ken Bartsch and his sister, my Auntie Rena a bridesmaid. The groom was my Dad’s cousin Ray, who had featured in much family folklore, as he had boarded with Dad’s family in the Second World War period and the boys had got up to much teenage mischief together.
In another weird “serendipity” occurrence, after having lost contact for many years, Dad had come across cousin Ray when both were patients at the Royal Adelaide Hospital, and had made a point to visit him whenever he came down from his country farm for treatment. It was at this point (early 1985) that I recall meeting Cousin Ray and his wife Rona. Then my Dad died unexpectedly, and Ray and Rona made a point of attending the funeral, where Ray made an unscheduled speech, partly dwelling on the fact that he had been the more seriously ill of the two, and he had anticipated that Ken would soon be attending his (Ray’s funeral). He felt that it having occurred the other way around was some type of grave injustice.
Ray gave me a cassette recording of the soothing music he played while doing circuits and bumps of his paddocks driving the combine harvester (which I still have).
When my son James was born in Ararat in 2005, Rona was visiting her sister Eline for the weekend and she came to see me in hospital. Here is an image of the elderly lady with newborn James:
Rona Haby with newborn James Guthrig. April 2005.
So here the “degrees of Separation” come full circle.
Music, too, has a strange way of jogging the memory and stirring emotions. Being a young musician in the Adelaide-based Lutheran church meant that my sisters and I were well in the thick of it. A new Service Order, adapted from one used in Missouri, U.S.A, was introduced into the Australian church in 1987. One inclusion was a rousing anthem entitled “This is the Feast of Victory”. Whenever I play and sing it, I give an especial accent and stress on the “VICT” of victory. At one stage I paused to wonder “Why?” and then it came to me. That is the way the Choir Master had taught us for the Big-Splash LAUNCH of the new Hymnbook…
When Neil and I flew to Brisbane from England for my Sister’s wedding, we called in on some friends, the husband of the family having been a contemporary of Neil’s during his Exchange Student stint at Luther Seminary, Adelaide. John’s wife, Diane, was, quite unconsciously, trying to work out some connection to Neil. (As he is English, and a convert from the Anglican Church, the “game” does not work with Neil, which people tend to find incredibly frustrating). So Diane tried instead MY school and family connections, looking for a possible link. When asking the purpose of our visit, and me sharing it was for my sister’s wedding to Tim, Diane’s face cleared. Oh yes! She knew TIM! They had been to College together! And Tim was marrying Kylie’s sister! So Diane could join the dots from herself, to Tim, to Kylie and hence to Neil. CHING!
All was right with the world once again.
In addition to all these peculiar Lutheran concepts (which most everyone accepts as completely normal), it must also be admitted that Adelaide is basically a small town. Technically a capital City, yes, and a population of over a million now, there is still a small-town feeling to it, and if you narrow the circles to Music, or Lutherans, or a combination of the two, you are dangerously close to knowing just about everyone.
Throughout my life in Adelaide, if I attended any sort of Music Concert, I never worried about taking a friend. All you had to do was to spill out into the foyer at Interval time and you’d find dozens of familiar faces. Hence also the “Adelaide Whip” – a quick motion of the head first to the left, then to the right, to check if anyone is in earshot, especially if you are about to criticise something or some one. Because you may well be standing next to their cousin.
So now, is there just a LITTLE more understanding of my position – detailed in Instalments 1 and 2 – of not wanting to be seen out with a SEMINARY STUDENT unless I was completely sure the relationship was Rock Solid?
Because otherwise, Everyone would know.
Degrees of Separation: Six…Five…Four…Three and counting…
I had gone back to Adelaide University to complete a 1-year “Graduate Diploma in Education”, which was a good thing for me, primarily because the student mix was from various backgrounds, rather than essentially all the “musos” I had seemingly known all my life. Between lectures and tutorials, much relaxed time was spent in the Union Bar and lunching with our Polish Professor J J (George) Smolicz at a nearby pub.
I had two great mates, both named Geoff. One had a convenient girlfriend interstate (I wondered sometimes if she actually existed); the other was a potential [later actual] romantic interest. The three of us got along very well, but the name thing created some amusing moments. For example, my younger sister would say nonchalantly: “Oh Kylie, someone called Geoff rang”. Me: “Which Geoff?” Sister: “How on earth would I know? He wants you to call him back”.
I also joined a Young Adults Group connected with my church congregation – another positive thing, as I had fairly studiously avoided attendance at “Youth” throughout my High School years.
Enter Stage Left, an important member of the Cast of Characters – Rhonda, a gorgeous leggy Blonde who had recently moved to Adelaide from Melbourne. She was planning a birthday celebration for her good-looking newish boyfriend Jonathan and I agreed to help with the preparations. The party all went well, and as a small “Thank-you” Rhonda invited me for a meal at her flat the following Monday night.
Unbeknownst to me, there was another young man (Martin) with whom Rhonda was friendly and she invited him as well. [Much later it occurred to me that this might have been a matchmaking attempt, as the delightful Martin was perennially single]. (Martin is also a significant part of the “Cast List” – take note!).
Martin was, that evening, playing squash with an Exchange Student friend, whom he had met a few years before while travelling in England. As his squash partner had met the lovely Rhonda already, Martin invited him along too.
So I was there first, and opened the door to two smiling young men, welcoming them both in.
It was nearing the end of the Uni term and the ring-in, Neil, had an assignment to finish, so he had pre-warned Martin “I’m happy to have a bite to eat with Rhonda, but I must leave no later than 9.00pm”. As 9pm approached, and the foursome was enjoying coffee, Martin conscientiously reminded Neil of the time. Neil waved him off, as he was lapping up the attention of not one, but two blondes. At regular intervals, Martin dutifully noted the time.
It got to around 10.30pm, and, as I was unaware of the assignment-finishing arrangement, but did know that Martin had brought Neil, I said breezily “If you have to go, Martin, don’t worry, I’ll drop Neil back to town”. Now somewhat cornered, and not wanting to give complex explanations, Martin dutifully left, leaving Neil to consume more coffee and then start on the Port with the girls until gone midnight. At the time I was struck with how fascinating and interesting he was – and LUTHERAN, to boot.
As a Classical Music Snob and aspiring Pipe-Organist, I was firmly in the camp of Traditional Church Music, and already critical of the moves within our congregation to include in worship services a “Youth Band” which performed a fairly limited repertoire of 4-chord Praise Songs. There had also been a 1970’s liturgy (Order of Service) introduced, which my Dad had described as “Musical Nonsense” and my Mum agreed “Failed Harmony 101”. [You can see why I didn’t enjoy much rapport with the Church Youth].
Much to my surprise, though, both Rhonda (who sang in the Choir at a neighbouring Congregation) and Neil supported my view that a shift away from traditional liturgy and hymns risked “throwing the baby out with the bathwater”. This was, to me, quite a revelation – that I wasn’t the only musically conservative Lutheran in existence under the age of 40.
Eventually, the bottle of Port was emptied and I drove Neil back to his “digs” in North Adelaide. He gently asked for my phone number and enquired if he could call me “on Wednesday”. (I thought this a bit odd, but still didn’t know about the incomplete assignment). As I farewelled him from my car outside the Luther Seminary – at 1.00am – I smiled at myself as I knew I was breaking all my own “Rules” but, hey, he was charming… and that “Pommy” Accent…
There, I’ve said it. I wonder if somewhere in the world there exists a support group where ladies will stand up and make such a confession?
Like other maladies for which such groups exist, being a Pastor’s wife is not something you readily volunteer at parties. Nor is it something that young girls aspire to be when they “grow up”.
When my Husband was Ordained back in September 1993, a wonderful, accomplished, intelligent, thoughtful, high powered woman (who also just happened to be married to a Minister) gifted us a Recipe book entitled “A Proper Tea”. In it she had inscribed:
“Ordination creates not only a Pastor but also a Pastor’s wife. Therefore, this gift is for you both: afternoon tea at the vicarage is, after all, one of the essential clerical arts”.
Unbeknownst to this thoughtful lady, I am one of the world’s worst scone-makers.
So this was it. I was sunk.
So how did all this come about? Well, I firmly believe that God has a sense of humour and also a healthy dose of irony. You see, I had spent my University years protesting loudly to anyone who would listen that I was looking for a boyfriend with a “Proper Job”.
As I was studying Music at the time, my choices were somewhat limited in the man-with-decent-earning-capacity stakes so I was rather inspired by the interest of an Arts student – studying Japanese – who I met through the University “Lutheran Student Fellowship”. My Mum was happy; as the young man was even a member of the same church I had grown up in. The relationship was looking promising – to me at least – until I learned that the following year he was headed off to the Adelaide Luther Seminary for – gulp – Pastor training. So that was the end of that… (Shame, as he was good-looking, too!)
Then there was the case of my country cousins. They were studying in the City and boarding at the Seminary. One cousin – a talented Organist – became engaged to a Seminary Student. What a cliché, thought the younger, less tolerant me. The Pastor’s wife chained to the Pipe Organ week after week. They seemed happy and I thought – fine if she’s OK with it, but that is not the life for me.
How wrong this was to prove.
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If you would like me to pen the next instalment of the story, please “Comment”. Thanks!
Serendipity 